


Warm to the touch

by canardroublard



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Aftercare, Background OT3 - Freeform, Established Relationship, F/M, Light Bondage, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, but Illya isn't in this, it's not what I'd explicitly call femdom but it's not NOT femdom, light fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2020-12-17 15:23:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21056615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canardroublard/pseuds/canardroublard
Summary: "Are you going to be good for me tonight?"Yes, ma'am."





	Warm to the touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [takingoffmyshoes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingoffmyshoes/gifts).

It's been one of those days. Gaby has had to play wife to Napoleon's arms dealer for nearly ten hours of brunches, meetings, lunches, golf rounds, dinners, more meetings, and drinks, which means she has been relegated to clinging to his arm and not making any decisions. That's tiresome enough on its own, but this time she's been feigning an inability to understand any language but German. So she's spent the entire day staring vapidly around, picking her nails, trying to appear utterly ignorant and more than a little bored while pale businessmen in Savile Row suits boast about how many missiles they've sold to various dictators du jour, as Napoleon laughs and smiles along with them. Every now and then she'll ask him a question in German, something mild, like someone unable to keep up making an attempt to follow the conversation, to which he'll chuckle, give her an evasive answer and a kiss on the cheek, then turn back to the men and joke about what a good wife he has, even if the only English she knows is "I love you."

She _hates_ it. Hates every single moment. Even the ones when her subterfuge pays off; when Napoleon excuses himself to the restroom and the businessmen start running their mouths about the truly, appallingly unethical things they're actually up to. But she can't react at all, since even the slightest flinch might give her away. Her only job is to be invisible.

It's little consolation, but she knows Napoleon hates this too. She can see it in his eyes every time he has to laugh at one of their horrid jokes. She feels it in the way he grips her hand too tight under the table, like the contact with her is the only thing holding him together. Despite the macho posturing he and Illya attempted during the early days of their partnership, she knows that Napoleon has come into his own as a team player, that he now works best with a partner, so having to more or less fly solo, unable to speak in any meaningful way to her, is exhausting for him.

And Illya isn't with them. Their little team is stretched thin on this mission, with Illya needed on the other side of town to run another part of the operation, so they haven't seen him at all in a week; haven't even talked to him except one brief phone call over a secured line, which was just to share intel. None of them are so clingy as to be heartsick over this relatively brief separation, but Gaby misses his warmth in bed, misses his dopey smiles and achingly soft kisses. Even though it is, she can privately admit, nice to have some alone time with Napoleon.

When she and Napoleon return to their hotel room, they're both in a strange mood. She's frustrated from her day of forced passivity; he's difficult for her to read, but he seems somehow both weary and unsettled, like something is rattling around inside him, loose, untethered. So when she turns to him, it's with no expectations, she just needs to _do_ something.

(Or someone.)

Napoleon leans into her kiss, letting her drag him down with a hand on the back of his neck. He's not as absurdly tall as Illya, thank goodness, but there's still just enough of a difference between them that someone is always reaching; her stretching up, him folding down, the fit between their bodies asymmetric but somehow perfect, because it just gives her a better excuse to jump into his arms. After a moment he walks them forward, until her back is up along the wall, sending a thrill through her body when he shifts and she rocks against the first hints of his arousal.

"Are you going to be good for me tonight?" she asks, curling a hand around the back of his neck; not hard enough to force his attention, just giving him some soft pressure, a subtle reinforcement of what she's _really_ asking. It's an established signal between them, a coded phrase they've both learned the cadence of. There are a thousand different answers that will have her setting this aside for tonight, never pushing him further than he wants, but only one answer that signals acceptance of her overture.

He pauses, eyeing her, his hands flexing around her hips. Then, somehow, the entire attitude of his body changes, no longer looming forward, pressing her into the wall, but now simply holding her up, fingers no longer curling, firm and possessive but now loosening into a reverent caress. Even before he answers, she grins.

"Yes, ma'am," he murmurs, with the faintest tinge of exaggerated pomp.

His cheek isn't a surprise. Only very occasionally will he submit to her, pliant, vulnerable as a newborn kitten, from the very start. That tends to be more Illya's way. Most times Illya craves her approval, wants to be good for her, folds himself to her will without rebellion, almost grateful to no longer have to make decisions, that he can cede control and simply obey. Napoleon, though, usually makes her break him down. At least a little. He gets there in the end, but he pushes back just enough that she has to work for it, which earns him some punishment along the way, but she knows that's part of the fun for him. Both fulfill a different desire in her.

She digs her heels into the small of his back, spurring him. "Bedroom, then."

"Yes, ma'am."

There are more intense ways she could start, make him strip right now, drop to his knees, beg, but she wants to ease into this. And, though she has no plans on admitting this to either him or Illya, she likes how they carry her; something sings in her chest when she feels the power of their bodies, both shaped by, for, violence, but mastering that to hold her without hurting her, engulfing her in the warmth and safety of their touch.

Once they're in the bedroom he sets her down slowly, like she's trained him, biceps flexing as he brings her to earth, then rocks back on his heels, dark hair flopping over his forehead, hands disappearing behind his back in a suggestion of parade rest which she suspects is unconscious on his part, pure muscle memory.

She taps his arm, hanging a bit askew. "Stand straight."

Eyes darkening, he pulls his arms in, back firming up, bringing his feet into line, his chin tipping up to expose his throat. It's only the merry glint in his expression that breaks the image of the perfect soldier. She narrows her eyes. He very nearly smirks but doesn't, deftly toeing the line between obedience and disobedience, daring her to punish him. A tempting thought. One for later, though. Once he's earned it more.

"Strip."

As he starts to work on his shirt she sits on the foot of the bed to watch, not offering him the dignity of privacy, even when he stoops to tug off his socks, something which even he can't make alluring. She hasn't told him to put on a show and at first he doesn't, his motions practical, but as he pops open his fly his eyes flick to her, just as he cups himself through his trousers, drawing her gaze where _he_ wants it. But tonight he doesn't get to make those choices, doesn't get to force her hand.

"I didn't say you could touch yourself.”

Pausing, he eyes her for a moment longer, obviously deciding whether to test her further, obey, or tap out altogether. With a brief rumble of tension through his body, like he has to press something down to get to the place he needs to be in for such obedience, he removes his hand, returning to his methodical undressing until he's nude before her, adopting parade rest again, his half-hard cock jutting out before him.

"Better," she says, spare, not giving him too much warmth too soon. He hasn't earned that yet, either, not after his little stunt when he was stripping. Illya would already be there by now, needy, compliant, hungry for her praise, but with Napoleon it doesn't come as naturally, needing a slower, longer build to get him begging, doubting his own ability to sink into the right headspace right up until he does. When he does, though, _oh_, is he beautiful.

Taking a second to plan her next few moves, she lets him stand, exposed to her gaze, unable to do anything but submit to the scrutiny. He tenses again, his jaw going tight, as if he has to consciously force himself not to fidget, knowing she hasn't permitted anything more. Just as she's about to release him he loses himself, arms twitching, shifting on his feet, making her impulsively change plans. And she'd almost thought he could do it.

"Clearly you need some help controlling yourself tonight." She steps past him, heading for the closet. It's another signal, less codified, looser, but one she knows he'll understand. Rifling through his ties, past fine silk which washes over her fingers, she selects another, linen or cotton, something less precious, but also less slippery, which suits her purpose.

He swallows heavily when she turns back to him, taking the tie in both of her hands and snapping it taut.

"Don't you agree?" she prompts as she journeys closer, letting her shoulder brush his arm, both insisting that he obey, by answering her, and subtly confirming that he's happy with the direction she's taking things. If he sasses her she'll punish him, to be sure, but she'll find another way to go about it.

"Yes, ma'am."

A little thrill traces up her spine, even though she turns away from him. "So good," she offers, letting some of her pleasure at his answer filter into her voice. "On the bed."

They work together to get him situated, her ordering him about until he's in a position she wants but not squirming in discomfort, then he stretches, chest arching slightly as he locks his hands together above his head, letting her sit back on her knees to look down at him. As she does so he meets her gaze, then his face tugs into a grin, not smarmy, instead the genuine, loopy little one he gets sometimes which always makes a happy warmth flood her chest.

"Hey," he says, soft, sincere.

"Hey yourself," she responds, breaking character to lean down, pressing her forehead to his as her eyes slip closed. She still doesn't know how he and Illya can coax such gentleness and warmth from her, marvels at her own capability for something she'd never experienced before them, but she's mostly learned to stop fighting it. "How are you doing?"

He hums. "Good. Glad you suggested this. I didn't want to push, but..."

"Yeah, we both needed this," she picks up his thought to add.

This is the other difference between doing this with him and Illya. When Illya submits to her he goes deep and stays there until they're done, his mood easily dislodged if she tries too hard to pull him out of it. She still has ways to check in, to get past the pretense to access _him_, but she doesn't stray much from the tone they've set. Napoleon, though he never falls quite as far, is able to navigate the liminal space between what they do in the moment and who they are the rest of the time, slipping in and out of their scenes like a Shakespeare hero pausing to deliver an aside to the audience before seamlessly melting back into the artifice of the play.

With another hum he agrees, turning his head so his nose bumps hers. "I notice you left my good ties alone this time."

She grins again. "I thought I'd be nice to you tonight. Besides, I'm not in the mood to hear you whine about how I'm a heathen for crumpling up your favourite ones after we're done with this."

"I do not _whine_. I merely point out that using pure Chinese silk to hogtie a man is absolutely—"

Instead of listening to this rant for the third time she tips her chin down, only needing a tiny motion to bring her lips to his. They're both half smiling into the kiss so it's a bit messy, but she can't manage to stop. When she nips at his lower lip he groans, shifting, and then his hand brushes her shoulder.

"I thought I told you to stay." She pulls back, giving him a slap on the arm, not hard enough to leave a mark but enough to sting.

"Actually, you didn't," he retorts as he returns his hand above his head, settling back against the pillows at the same time he settles back into the scene, his expression turned mischievous, sending another little thrill through her. He's not going to make this easy, but she has no doubt it will be fun.

"I'll have to make you stay still, then." She reaches for the tie, straddling his chest so she can reach up to loop it through a rung in the headboard before she binds his hands together, knowing that, as she stretches over him, she's placed her cunt tantalizingly near his face but just out of reach. Double checking her knots, both to know they'll hold and ensuring they're not too tight, she jolts, almost toppling over, when Napoleon's forehead nudges aside the hem of her dress and his lips find the inside of her left leg, his stubble scratching in the most satisfying way against her skin.

"Bastard," she scolds, rocking back to sit on his chest again, missing the sensation of his mouth against her but playing a longer game than that.

"You didn't say I couldn't."

"I didn't say you _could_, either. And you should know better by now. Keep that up and I'll stuff something in your smart mouth so you can't talk back."

He offers no 'yes, ma'am', just goes silent, eyeing her, so she dismisses the notion of gagging him tonight. Sometimes he loves it, being deprived of the ability to speak, his greatest gift, and sometimes it's just too much, leaving him too vulnerable.

"Are you going to stay still, then? Be quiet?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Forcing some reluctance into her voice, she climbs off him. "Very well. I _suppose_ I'll find some other way to keep your mouth occupied." Reaching behind herself, she starts undoing her dress, knowing that one of his favourite things is to help her undress and denying him any chance to do so. "You know, if Illya was here I'd have him fuck your mouth," she mentions, casual, rubbing her thighs together at the memory of the last time. "That would keep both of you out of trouble. But since he's not, you and I will just have to figure something out, won't we?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She tugs the dress over her head to toss it in a crumpled heap on the floor, making sure he sees it. His jaw clenches. God, he and Illya are just too easy to mess with. Her bra and panties are nothing fancy, since she wasn't planning this, so she strips them off then settles astride him again, high on his stomach, smiling at the way his arms tug against the restraints, unable to preempt his own instinctive desire to reach for her. After a moment he masters himself, his forehead creasing as his arms go slack.

"That's more like it," she tells him, smoothing one hand along his chest, scratching lightly with her nails just for the shudder he gives her. "So, since you've needed me to spell out exactly what you are and aren't allowed to do tonight," she begins, disapproving, "I will be very clear now. I am going to touch myself for as long as I want. Right here, sitting on you, just like this, using your body however I want. You are not allowed to move. You are not allowed to make a single sound unless I ask you a question. You are not allowed to touch me. If you do any of those things before I grant you permission, I will find our blue dildo, the big one, I will put it in you, and I will leave you here, alone, tied up, stuffed full and desperate to be fucked and unable to do a thing about it, until you show a bit more gratitude for what I am offering." She stills her hand, letting her nails bite into his skin. "Do you understand?"

Throat jolting, he stares up at her, eyes dark. She doesn't look back behind herself, but she has little doubt that if she did she'd find him at least mostly hard. Then he nods, as if too overwhelmed by the idea to speak.

"Words, Napoleon," she reminds him. "Or this stops now."

"_No_," he rasps out, instant. "No, don't stop. Yes, I understand."

She arches an eyebrow.

"Ma'am," he corrects, shaking his head, seemingly frustrated with himself. "I understand, ma'am."

"Any objections?"

"No, ma'am."

Giving him a moment to settle in, she draws her hand back, stroking up and down her own sides, going nowhere in particular, just letting her body awaken further to being touched. He shifts under her then stills again, his eyes wide as he watches her. She lets her hands drift up, pulling her hair off her neck with a low groan before moving to her chest, doodling lazy, aimless swirls on her breasts, the tops, the sides, underneath, avoiding the centre for now. Growing bored of that she strokes down, caressing her own hips before she lets her touch skip away to tease the insides of her thighs, starting just above her knees and slowly working back up until she hits the crease of her thigh. Unable to resist, she trails a single finger higher, the barely-there contact with her clit drawing a low noise from her throat, sending a zing of electricity through her body. The whole time, Napoleon stares at her, unblinking, unbreathing, enraptured.

As she brings one hand back up to her breast she leaves the other between her legs, gently stroking, rolling first one nipple then the other around with the tip of her fingernail. On its own this wouldn't do too much for her, but the ravenous look in Napoleon's eyes as his gaze flicks up, down, unable to settle, wanting to watch all of her at once, sends molten heat pooling low in her stomach. It's always satisfying, knowing that one of the most handsome men she's ever met looks at her like _that_.

She widens the spread of her legs a little, giving herself more room to work and, as a bonus, granting him a better view. Her fingers glide slick, easy, as she circles around, homing in until she slides one finger inside herself, humming with pleasure as her body opens up without protest. Though she could, if she wanted to, take care of herself fairly quickly, she uses this moment, with her oh so captive audience, to go slow, playing around with strokes of different depths and speeds and angles, pausing every so often to put some pressure on her clit with the heel of her hand. She's not pandering to Napoleon, letting him wait, restless, desperate, while she focuses on her own pleasure. It's been a few weeks since she's had the time and energy—and lack of partners joining in, which is always fun but usually ends up with more hands involved than just her own—to do this for herself.

Still, she does have some use for him. Withdrawing her hand, she brings it to his mouth, offering two fingers, including the one that's shining from her first round. She taps them against his lips, watching closely as he swallows, takes a shuddery inhale, but doesn't move. He's behaving himself.

"Get these wet for me," she orders, unnecessary, since she's plenty wet on her own, but there's no harm in a little audience participation.

She's barely finished the words before his mouth is on her, sucking shamelessly on her fingers, his tongue laving around, seeking out the taste of her, his eyes fluttering closed in bliss. He keeps going until she tells him to stop, which makes him look up at her again, bereft, but he keeps control over himself as she moves to touch herself again.

Two fingers isn't any more trouble than one, and she sighs in contentment as she starts to move with more intent, focusing in on the sweet spot on her front wall, able to apply more pressure than she could with just her index finger, now grinding steadily against her own hand, working herself up, up, up. Remembering Napoleon's presence, she, with some difficulty, forces her eyes open so she can gaze down at him. And _God_, the way he's staring at her, biting his lip, a deep furrow in his forehead, like it's taking every ounce of his willpower not to speak, to reach for her, desperate as he is.

She's the one who stops looking at him first, unable to prevent her eyes from closing as she tips over the edge, clenching around her own fingers while pure pleasure bursts through her body and stars dance behind her eyelids. She lets out a low grunt, then lets it turn into a groan for Napoleon's benefit. When the touch against her clit tips from electric to oversensitive she sighs again, then slips her fingers out, slumping to sit her full weight back on his chest, feeling a contented smile pulling at her face.

"Mm," she hums, idly wiping her fingers off against his chest. "That was lovely. A good orgasm does wonders, doesn't it?"

When she reopens her eyes she finds him glaring up at her with a distinctly frustrated look on his face. She smirks, petting his chest, avoiding the wet spot where her slick got rubbed into his chest hair.

"And since you were so good," she continues, "I have a treat for you."

"How generous of you."

She arches an eyebrow at his half-sardonic tone. "I thought I've been very generous so far." Resting her hand against his throat, she doesn't apply pressure, instead tipping his chin up, exposing his thrumming, vulnerable pulse line to her gaze. When she lets one fingernail trace the vein he shudders. "All you have to do is stay still and be good. Or do you want me to go get the dildo?"

He eyes her as his jaw works for a moment of indecision. This is the part she knows he finds hardest; not the participation she requests when she tells him to touch, to move, to act, but the nothingness of being ordered to merely watch. It doesn't come easily to him, the passivity she demands, and that he needs a moment now is not a surprise. She sees it outside of the bedroom, too. Illya has patience for days but Napoleon has little tolerance for inaction, turning restless and edgy if required to lay low for too long. Sometimes it takes her an hour to get him past that during their scenes, him fighting her like a fish on a line, snarking, snapping, skirting her commands until at long last he exhausts himself into strung-out docility, always grateful afterwards but the process demanding on both of them. Sometimes they don't get there at all and end up fucking, hard, push and pull, give and take, until they reach a different sort of completion. But she doesn't think this is one of those nights. Still, she's offering him the choice here.

Finally, he relaxes a little, going pliant under her. "No, ma'am. I'll be good."

"We'll see about that," she replies, unimpressed, giving him a faint squeeze around the throat before she pulls away. "You know, I _was_ about to let you get your mouth on me. But since you decided to be clever, you'll have to sit back and watch as I touch myself again."

He groans, head flopping back against the pillows.

"Look at me," she commands with a light tap against his chest with her fingers, just enough to draw his attention back to her. "And if you complain again this gets much worse for you."

It's a bit too soon after her last orgasm, she wasn't anticipating doing this again without involving him more, but she sets to work teasing herself, giving her body time to settle down from her previous high and ease into the build up for the next. When she finally returns a hand to her sex she's still wet, and while it took her longer to get here this time she can tell that this orgasm is coming on fast. Though he is patient at first, as she starts to touch herself in earnest Napoleon squirms under her, arms straining against his binds, with a huffing noise.

"You want to help?" she questions, hearing her voice come out hazy and distracted.

He nods.

"Then stay still like I told you to."

Screwing his eyes shut for half a second, he takes a ragged breath, shaking his head. "C'mon, G—"

"I know you can." With one hand, the one that's not between her own legs, she strokes his hair, making a soft hum of reassurance when he leans into the contact, almost headbutting her hand, as if desperate for her touch. All three of them, she suspects, have lived lives with far too little human contact. So she gives him just enough of herself, of her encouragement, to keep him going. "I know you can be good for me."

With a soft whine, his whole body trembles. Then he starts to loosen his muscles one by one, first his hands, initially throttling the tie as it loops around the headboard, go soft, then his arms slump, his shoulders roll back, not so much relaxing as purposefully dissipating tension where he feels it. Then his ribs expand, pushing against the insides of her legs, as he takes another breath, this one deep, almost gasping, making her suddenly aware of how tightly he's been holding himself.

"That's it. So good," she says, rewarded when he shivers, ever so slightly, at the praise. "Do you still want to help?"

Eyes finally reopening to her view, pupils wide and dark, he swallows. Then he nods.

A grin takes hold of her as she, not wasting any more time, braces herself with both hands on his shoulders then pushes up, swinging her knees over his shoulders, hovering above his mouth. Waiting a moment, she watches him turn his head, diving towards whatever skin he can get his mouth on, but at the last second he remembers himself and stops, gazing up at her, uncertain. She waits longer, until he settles back in, docile, listening for her command. Only then does she flex her legs further, presenting herself to him.

"Touch me," she tells him, the end of the words bleeding into a sigh when he immediately obeys, his mouth hot and wet as he explores her outer lips, and _oh_. Sometimes she somehow manages to forget just how good he is at this. Possibly because there are many things he's also good at. But as he finds her clit, nudging it with the tip of his tongue then darting away before the contact becomes too much, she muses to herself that she really needs to tie him down more often because at this moment she feels decadently, obscenely pleased with herself, him, and life in general. She hasn't given him any specific instructions so he gets right to the point, not bothering to tease her too much. Even after the interruption to talk him through relaxing, her orgasm hasn't retreated too far, roaring back to life as he licks a long stripe down her cunt then fucks his tongue into her. Without use of his hands he doesn't have as much finesse as usual, rendering things even sloppier, but when he ventures back up to suck on her clit Gaby moans, halfway overwhelmed, so, so, _so_ fucking close. She just needs something, needs—

He sets his teeth to her, not quite nipping, just giving her a jolt of sensation which straddles the delicious, agonizing line between pain and pleasure, and that finally pulls her into the abyss. Distantly, she hears herself cry out, raw, unabashedly grinding into his face to draw out her orgasm. When it starts to fade she sits back on his chest, feeling it rise and fall beneath her as he takes heaving breaths, knowing that her own breathing is similarly uncoordinated.

"So good," she repeats, a touch hoarse, trying to pull herself out of her haze faster, knowing that he must be getting desperate and not wanting to leave him untethered too long. "You did so good." She absently pets his hair again, hoping this will tide her over. When she manages to open her eyes—when had she closed them?—she finds him staring up at her, looking soft and needy and obedient and perfect and _hers_.

"Yeah?" he asks, licking his lips, his lower face an utter mess, shiny and slick.

"Yeah. You're being so good now," she tells him breathlessly. "You—just a bit longer. Can you last a bit longer? For me?"

"Yes. Anything." And somehow he looks like he means it, genuinely, without a hint of hyperbole. Like she could ask him to fetch her the moon right now and he would.

She is never, _ever_ going to let him go.

She beams down at him for a moment, then scrambles off him, off the bed, to grab a condom, returning to settle herself right on the tops of his thighs. He's fully hard, just from eating her out. She truly doesn't know what she did right, what deity finally decided to stop kicking her when she was down and instead sent her this man, but if she ever figures that out she's probably going to become a religious convert. When she curls a hand around his erection his entire body jolts, forcing a rattling breath from his lungs. She gives him a few pumps, thumbs at his slit, then, at last, rolls the condom on, rises onto her knees and guides him home.

They both groan as she eases down, slow, deliberate, wanting to feel every inch of him. When her hips settle against his her eyes flutter shut. This moment might be her favourite part. The second before she starts moving, two seconds, maybe a few more, of perfect stillness, joined together in the deepest way, listening to each other breathe, his heart thrumming against the hand she has braced on his chest. The moment in which they pause to simply exist together.

It doesn't last. She only has so much patience. She gazes at him, curling the points of her nails into the skin above his heart. "You can speak, but you're not allowed to come until I say so."

"I—" His hips twitch briefly before he forces himself still with a grunt.

"Can you behave yourself?"

His head bobs in a hasty nod. "Yes, ma'am."

All her body wants her to do is to fuck him, hard, sprinting after her orgasm, so she has to take a breath, push down her urges to start slowly, rocking against him a few times then pulling back, a slow drag that draws a groan from him, before she sinks back down, not increasing her pace. His arms wrestle with his bonds again while she starts moving properly. She can tell he's fighting not to come, biting his lip, groaning like he's being knifed. She's not there herself, though, not quite yet.

"Don't come," she snaps in reminder, starting to touch her clit.

"_Oh god_. I can't—"

"Don't you dare. I know you can do it. I know you can hang on. You want to be good, don't you?"

He whines, his head shaking almost violently. "Yeah, yeah, I do. Gabs—" He's interrupted when she slams herself down on him, brutal, and whatever last thread of composure he'd been holding onto finally snapped. "Oh God. _Please._ Please, I need—"

That's what she was waiting for. A surge of heat fills her as he pleads with her, rocketing her arousal upwards. Her motions turn artless, fucking him, her fingers circling and pulling at her clit to push her higher, higher, higher—

"_Now_," she urges him. "Come for me."

They fall apart together. Beyond the white noise filling her ears she thinks she hears him moan, low in his throat. Beyond the clenching pleasure of her own body, she thinks she feels him buck against her, hips snapping up to meet hers. They gasp and grind until they both slow to a stop, then Gaby flops down onto his chest, sweaty, supremely satisfied. She only allows herself a moment to rest, though, before she rises, stretching up to free Napoleon's hands, bringing them down to the pillows as he shifts with a grateful noise. Taking his own time, he slowly pulls his arms down to rest on his chest, wincing a little. As he settles himself she starts to bustle around, taking the condom from him and tossing it, then she returns to find him still sprawled on the bed, unmoving, eyes shut.

"Are you okay? Was that too much?" she asks, suddenly worried.

He shakes his head. "I'm good. That was fun. 'M just stiff."

Sitting next to him, she strokes along his biceps, forearms, light at first, then she starts to massage his wrists, ducking to press soft kisses to each one. His mouth lifts with a smile, his eyes hooded when he opens them to look up at her.

"I'm okay, Gabs," he tells her, gentle. "If I'd wanted to stop I would've said so. You know that, yeah?"

Her teeth dig into her lip, but she nods. She knows that he'll call a stop to things, or ask to go slower, because he _has_ in the past, once or twice, but she's never had anyone put so much trust in her before him, so finding a balance is something she still grapples with on occasions like this.

"Turn over." She offers one last command for the night, one she knows will make him feel good.

A saucy grin brightens his face. "Yes, ma'am."

She snorts, even as he obeys. "So _good_," she croons, playful, which draws a huffing snort from Napoleon, too.

When he has flipped to lie on his stomach she straddles his lower back, digging the heels of her hands into his shoulders, her mind sinking into the task of finding any tense spots and easing his discomfort. They don't speak beyond Napoleon's indications of 'a bit lower. Mm, yeah, that's it', reaffirming their connection through touch instead. Once he's melted into the bed, loose as a sunbathing cat, Gaby lets her hands go still, then once again flops down atop him, this time stretching out along his back, letting her head rest against the broad muscles of his shoulder. His ribs rise and set underneath her, deep, slow; she's not entirely sure he's still awake.

"You gonna lie there all night?" he mumbles.

She makes a regretful noise. "My back would kill me in the morning."

"Mine too." He starts to shift. "C'mere. Didn't think you could get away without a cuddle, did you?"

A soft puff of laughter escapes her. "If you'd forgotten I'd be worried."

They shuffle and pivot until they're on their sides. He glues himself all along her back, his knees slotting into the backs of hers, his face tucking into the nape of her neck, his arms circling around her, hands splaying across her stomach, cupping the bone of her hip, journeying in a pattern which seems aimless, but she knows is deliberate on his part. This is the last part of their routine for nights like this, him taking some time afterwards to touch her everywhere he'd wanted to but couldn't when his hands were tied. The light contact sends a shiver through her, makes her sigh, deep and long with pleasure, and she can feel him smiling into the back of her neck as she drifts to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Big, huge thanks to my beta, who is the absolute best. And to shoes, your Gaby/Solo smut prompt spoke directly to my heart. My horny, rarepair desperate heart.


End file.
